


Try Again, Be Better (But What If I Can't? Life Isn't A Game)

by xxELF21xx



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Capes, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Babs is a family friend, Bruce doesn't become Batman, But he still adopts Jason and Dick, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, POV Second Person, Relationship Study, Tim doesn't come into the pic yet, tbh everyone is a jerk to jason im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxELF21xx/pseuds/xxELF21xx
Summary: They don't take it well — to him: when he first arrives, when he joins; when he leaves.They wish they'd done better.





	Try Again, Be Better (But What If I Can't? Life Isn't A Game)

**Author's Note:**

> why do i always vent through Jason?

He's hungry.  _God Almighty,_ he's so, so,  _so_ hungry. His fingers are scrapped and he's tired. All skin and bones, hair dirty and messy. His whole body trembles with the wind, and he thinks that he'll be blown away by the currents sooner or later. 

When was the last time he'd had a safe roof over his head? When was the last time he'd showered? When was the last time he'd eaten  _anything?_ The metal hisses against him, the scratches from fights hook onto him. He's so, so,  _tired._ There is a steady pain in his head, aquamarine eyes glow dimly in the filth. 

He just about misses his salvation, his  _one way ticket_ to food, shelter, a  _safe space._ Stumbling back, he trudges up for a closer look.  _I'm hallucinating,_ he says to himself. The metal against his palm is warm. With what little strength he has left, he scrambles onto his knees (they hit painfully against the rough floor, his mind screams in agony as his nerves catch on fire). The car is sleek, new,  _expensive._ It's also unforgiving, difficult. He takes about ten minutes just trying to figure out  _how_ he can take what he needs.

The metal grows nasty in his hold. 

But, alas! Not even a third-way through his adventure, and he's been caught. Trapped. In a booming voice, they ask, 'what are you doing?' He hurls his weapon, his lifeline, toward the person, hearing a satisfied  _whamp!_ when it hits the other. Hastily, he moves to run. 

His eyes glow bright as adrenaline, or what's  _left_ of it, surges through his blood. It pumps loudly in his ear, his chest. The ache in his head boos equally as loud in protest. In a span of a second, he's falling. Falling toward the floor,  _I'm going to die._

— two arms encircle around him like a warm cocoon. It feels like warmth, like a fire crackling softly in the background, like  _home._ He freezes momentarily, breath ragged and wild. The other person is talking, his mind registers sharply. 'Are you alright? Where are your parents? What are you doing here?' Empty eyes stare into steel blue. No voice escapes his lips. 

In these dirty Gotham alleys,  _parents_ don't exist. 

The other person is a bulky man. He is also rich. Dressed in all black, with sharp features and inky hair, the blue of his eyes shine. He is worried. 

In these Gotham alleys,  _sympathy_ doesn't exist. 

He is tired. Tired of running, hiding, scavenging. His heartbeat slows significantly, energy spent entirely. Glowing eyes black out all of a sudden, and he's falling into blackness.

 

* * *

 

 

In these Gotham alleyways, there is no  _comfort._ Nobody will look out for you. The streets are your home, your enemy. The cold is your saviour, your destroyer. The rain is nothing but a mockery to your incompetence. 

He awakens, in silk sheets, new clothes, warmth. He awakens with the sun shining down upon him. The room is huge, with sparse furniture. There is no sound, no scuffling of feet, no shouting, no fights. He falls back asleep.

And after an eternity, he blinks away, slowly. There is someone there.  _This must be who delivers my sentence._ He makes no effort to fight back when he is manhandled into sitting. The pillows divine against his back. 

'Who are you?'

'Jason Todd.'

'Why were you there?'

'Why would  _anyone?_ I ain't got nobody, no home.'

The voice is silent. His eyesight isn't clearing up. Everything is hazy.

'Would you like to stay here?'

'Forever?'

'Yes.'

He remains silent. His head lolls to the window, or so he thinks it's a window. The light shining from there is bright. Unlike the streets. He would've jumped at the opportunity to have somewhere to stay. To have people to look after him. 

'Sure.'

The world clears around him. The man he tried to rob, or so he thinks that's the man he tried to rob, smiles graciously at him. 

 

* * *

 

 

The others don't take it well. They scream, they shout, they throw him looks. 

Apparently being an adopted son of Bruce Wayne means you're always in the limelight. And having the Boy Wonder, Dick Grayson, as your brother means there's always expectations to exceed. The media kicks up a storm when he first leaves the Manor grounds alone and unprotected: they hound him, they pick at him, they try to hurt him.

But they forget that he grew up in the one place where everyone else feared.

He bites back, feral with anger thrumming through his veins. Bruce says he's taken the media's bait, but he's had enough of everyone's shit. There wasn't anyone there for him the first time, why is this time any different? 

The media thinks that Bruce made a mistake by adopting him. He thinks nothing of it, the media has never helped anyone. 

Dick Grayson, however, is even nastier than the media. He is a hurricane of boiling temper, stewing with rage. At him, at Bruce, at everyone. Dick Grayson has only ever sneered down at him, kind blue eyes crystallizing every time they meet. He knows that Dick doesn't do this on purpose, that Dick is angry at  _Bruce._ He doesn't think much about his brother, who rarely comes home. 

Dick apologises. On a day when the clouds have taken over, with the winds picking up and tousling their dark hair. He remains silent throughout the apology, not saying a word. His mind hums with quiet activity, there is a warmth blossoming inside his chest. Dick may live up to his name, but he still human. 

That doesn't mean that Dick makes the effort to come through. Their relationship is rocky at best, with him observing and Dick randomly appearing. He is satisfied, with wide smiles and joyful eyes. Even if Dick is only using him, he says nothing. 

In these Gotham alleys, having  _meaning_ gives power. 

Bruce Wayne is friends with the police commissioner. Which means that he has to be friends with the daughter. She has red hair, and dark blue eyes. She is nice, he supposes, and treats him better than anyone else he's ever met. Barbara is  _careful_ around him, always making sure she never says or does anything that could offend him, slowly approaching him in public and indoors, making herself scarce when she deems him dangerous. She is good company, with her expansive knowledge and vast collection of books. He likes her well enough to loosen up a little around her. He reckons she knows about it, too. 

Barbara Gordon may be better than Dick, but she isn't what everyone says about her. She doesn't take him seriously, treating him like a mild pet project. They share a fragile bond, and they know it. They never reinforce it. What for? He's happy enough with this. There's no need for anything  _more._

In these Gotham alleys,  _friendships_ kill. 

He may give everything up for their butler. Alfred is a strong person. He runs the house. He makes sure that everyone is well fed and rested. Alfred sparks something forbidden in his mind, a thought he hasn't had ever since he'd started living in the garbage. The old man takes his time in getting to know him, ensuring that he is integrated into the family — no matter how small it is. Alfred  _understands_ what it feels like to be at a loss, to be abandoned and broken over and over again. Yet, Alfred remains resilient. 

He gives Alfred the title of "grandfather", and helps him around the house whenever possible. However, Alfred is a busy man. Alfred doesn't have time to entertain him, bustling around the Manor everyday to maintain it, preparing meals, cleaning up, taking care of everyone in the house. He understands, Alfred doesn't belong to him alone. 

In these Gotham alleys, nothing stays  _yours._

The man that saved him from the streets is his father now, huh. Bruce Wayne does act like a better parent, he dotes on his new son, he takes the time to ease his new son into a new life. Bruce is generous, spending time with him and gifting him things. He looks different, stronger, healthier. He looks happier. 

He is happier. 

Bruce isn't the best, though. Bruce is harsh and unforgiving when he makes a mistake. Bruce is obstinate, unwilling to change perspectives. Bruce  _stereotypes._ Bruce is not the man he thought. 

He grows tired of playing charades with Gotham. The city laughs at him, at his pathetic excuse of "redemption". There is no hope for the children Gotham damns. He is playing a losing game. Still, he perseveres. He is Jason Todd. He will not be defeated.

He parades on, blazing his name and goodwill on the papers; having his share of fun with the media. The people  _adore_ him, they laugh and cheer and become so  _alive_ around him during galas and events. It's hard to find social functions boring when all he does is play games with the elites, talking to them, sharing stories. Bruce  _listens_ when he talks about life on the streets,  _helps_ him help the other children to get better lives and go to school. The normal people buzz about him and spread rumours, like they always do, but they also talk about the good he's brought into Gotham's life. "A breath of fresh air" to the stale, dingy stench of the city. 

Dick and Barbara are warming up to him, they spend  _time_ with him. They ward off all the evils the media has to say, and fight back against the people's generalization of him as a "street rat". But that's who he is, can't they see? The pair throw him sour looks and reprimand him for thinking of himself as something unworthy. They tell Alfred and Bruce, who frown heavily with a gleam of sorrow in their aged eyes. 

Street rats aren't  _worthless._ He protests, they _fight_ for survival, they _evolve_ , they find ways to _better_  themselves! But the rest don't see that like he does. 

Regardless, he carries on. He will not let Gotham's tests run him down. 

 

* * *

 

 

He's hungry.  _God Almighty,_ he's so, so,  _so_ hungry. There is so much  _blood_ everywhere, on his body, on the floor around him. His mind is racing, trying to find a way  _out,_ his limbs are awfully weak. He knows he doesn't have much time. The clown, all green hair and too much make-up and that  _idiotic **laugh,**_ cackles as he tries to squirm away from another beating. He shivers involuntarily, squeezing his eyes shut as the metal comes swinging to his chest. His lips are clamped shut, but the faintest of screams still find its way out.

He is  _tired._ He is. He doesn't know how much longer he can go on, he doesn't have much fight left in him. The clown giggles, and the metal stings warmly against his thigh. He knows how it will end if he does not  _try._ He refuses to lose to this. Not after he's spent so much time winning Gotham over.  _There are still things I have to do!_ He heaves, his back hitting cold steel. Cold sweat pours down his forehead and into his eyes, but he blinks them away. Not like this, he begs, don't take me away like this. 

If he were in Gotham, would she save him? Would this be another one of her tests? Would she abandon him, casting him away for another one of her children? 

The bloodied metal glowers menacingly at him, promises of torture and death dripping off it. Blood gushes out of his stomach, the crazed clown laughing as the metal breaks his skin, his muscles, grinding his bones into dust. 

Blearily, he looks through dimmed teal eyes. The walls are closing in, he stares in awe. The drafts that enter from the warehouse send him back to the filth of Gotham, he shuts his eyes. He will not dirty his memories of Gotham by associating them with  _this._

He will fight tooth and nail until he is free. Gotham may be cruel, but she has taught him everything she knows. The least he can do is go back to Gotham, to show her that he has survived, that he is  _powerful._

Adrenaline, or whatever's that's spurring him on, gives out. He collapses, there is nobody there to catch him.  _This is no hallucination._ He can feel the gaping hole in his stomach, the ache in his head thunders, his ankles are twisted, his left eye is half-blind. His breaths are wet and ragged. The snowstorm rages outside, howling in dangerous amusement at his plight. 

Someone is talking, but all he can focus on is the pain in his head. He can no longer think properly. A loud bang of a door has him scrambling forward.  _No! No! No! Let me out! Let me out!_ He is a whirlwind of anxiety and panic, wriggling away from the  **tick, tick, tick** of the bomb. He hits the door weakly, rasping and broken fingers searching for escape. 

He's tired. Jason's  _tired._ He has no strength left to do anything but lay still at the foot of the door. A resigned look falls over his face. 

Aquamarine eyes that were bright with fire and fight dies out completely, the warehouse goes up in flames when the bomb goes off. 

 

* * *

 

 

Gotham screams in response to her child's death. Agony and wails are released over the city as harsh, warm winds barge through. The rain is spectacular, breaking glass surfaces. The city is silent in grief and loss. 

They don't take it well. They scream, they shout, they want  _answers._ But Gotham cannot give them one. 

In the end, Gotham only wants her child to be  _alive,_ to be  _happy._

They wish they'd done  _better,_ oh,wish they did! There was so much left of Jason Todd, the Golden Boy, in their city's streets, the buildings, the statues, even engraved in random walls, that nobody will outrun the injustice of Jason's death. 

They wished they'd done  _better!_ But in these Gotham alleys,  _wishes_ amount to  _nothing._

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what i wrote. something happened halfway and — yeah.
> 
> vent with me in the comments! if you're not having a good day, or if you have any jason feels, i'm here!


End file.
